Images in a Bauble
by Sophia E
Summary: Drabble challenge for the Bards of Prydain. 1. Fflewddur and Adaon; 2. Arawn visits Pryderi; 3. Queen Teleria, After the Battle; 4. Achren, The Crucible; 5. Taran, Summer's Day.
1. Presage

**A/N: ** Drabble challenge for the Bards of Prydain. First entry.

**Title:** Presage

**Prompt**: Fflewddur and Adaon meet for the first time.

**Keyword**: broken

**Words**: 586

**Characters**: Fflewddur and Adaon

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the Prydain Chronicles.

* * *

All over the slopes surrounding the bardic hall, branches were swelling with buds as a tall, lanky man followed his long nose away from the books and parchments that made his eyes burn and his brain ache. A spring breeze enticed him down a path out of sight of the main windows, where he flung himself down upon the grass under warm sunlight.

Winter had been long and cold, and Fflewddur Fflam had spent much of it indoors, bent over dusty books. Books he was still supposed to be studying in preparation for one of the many exams later that evening. The former king sighed. Yes. In a moment he would return to his studies. In just a moment.

His eyes closed.

Much later, he was awakened by a shadow falling across his face. Blinking, he struggled to his feet, shooting a panicked glance at the sun, which was approaching the horizon. He eyed the black-haired stranger approaching him.

The young man's face was kindly. "Surely, you have not forgotten the poetry exam which is even now being held in the main hall," he said in a voice that was as resonant and clear as if he were singing. The voice of a natural bard.

Fflewddur ran a hand through his spiky hair and a shower of dried leaves fell from his fingers. "Of course not," he declared, hearing his own voice sound rather thin and scratchy. "It's just that I, uh, looked out the window and thought I saw a messenger riding in, bearing the standard of my kingdom. Surely, thought I, they would not send a courier unless some dire threat menaced my realm. At once I rushed out to meet him, thinking only of my duty to my subjects." He began to warm to his tale, waving his arms and jutting out his chin proudly. "Then, once out here, I, uh…"

He stopped. The man's lips were curving into a faint smile. "You must be Fflewddur Fflam, son of Godo," he said. "Well met. I am Adaon, son of Taliesin."

Fflewddur's jaw dropped. "Son of the Chief Bard? Well, I…" He felt a flush suffusing his face. "I'm honored to meet you, sir."

"Shall we look for your courier together?" suggested Adaon.

"Uh, to tell the truth," admitted Fflewddur sheepishly, clearing his throat, "there really wasn't any courier. I saw the sun come out from behind the clouds, and the fields looked so beautiful…"

"And the poetry in your soul overwhelmed the poetry in the old books," said Adaon with a nod of understanding.

"In all honesty, I fell asleep in the sun," confessed Fflewddur. He gave the younger man a wry grimace, expecting a well-deserved rebuke.

But the man had paused for a moment, his hand on a curiously-shaped clasp at his throat. His clear grey eyes faltered.

"What is it?" asked Fflewddur. "Are you well?"

The other man shook his head. "It is nothing," he said. "I merely imagined for a moment I heard a woman weeping as though broken-hearted." He smiled at the taller man. "I, too, have flights of fancy when my mind yearns to be free of studying. Let us return to the hall together, my friend, and I will show you a trick to remember the verse we read today. It will make your task much easier."

As they walked back to the hall, the sun slipped below the hills and the sky turned pale as bone.


	2. The Weaving

**Title:** The Weaving

**Prompt**: The moment Pryderi chose (either consciously or unconsciously) to side with Arawn.

**Words**: 500

**Characters**: Pryderi and Arawn

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the Prydain Chronicles.

* * *

Pryderi awoke abruptly in the dimness of his bedchamber. Against the shutters, the rain hummed like a shuttle across a faraway loom.

Beside his bed stood a shadow, a patch of darkness stitched against the black.

Let none say Lord Pryderi lacked bravery. "Whose treachery allowed you past my guards, intruder?" he asked, as calm as though he were calling for his tailors.

A low chuckle was the only response. The shadow gestured, and the candles on his bedside table lit, allowing him to see the face of the other.

Pale, handsome features beneath a shock of black hair. A faint, somehow menacing smile. Although he had never seen this man face-to-face before, the dark aura was unmistakable.

"Arawn!" he hissed. Then he drew up his chin with pride. "Have you come here to kill me?"

The other's smile widened. "Not tonight," he murmured. He gazed over the large and elegant bedchamber, his glance appraising as he scanned the jeweled tapestries and rich furnishings. "A suite fit for a king." His voice became mocking. "A pity that one such as you bows and scrapes to a lesser man."

Pryderi stiffened. "Pryderi son of Pwyll humbles himself before no one!"

Arawn's smile was razor-sharp. "What of that doddering old fool who calls himself High King of Prydain? Who allows the realm he supposedly rules to tear itself apart over petty squabbles?" His voice dripped scorn. "Who lacks the strength to bring peace to a war-torn land?"

Pryderi eyed him narrowly. "What of it?"

Arawn's fingers hovered just over his lips. "In the secret fastness of your heart, are these not your thoughts?" he whispered. "You pride yourself on loyalty, but at what cost? Have you not watched cantrev lordlings bicker over trifles, seeking only to fatten their already glutted holdings, while the blood of innocents stains this golden land you love?"

Pryderi stared. "What does Arawn Death-Lord care for the blood of innocents?"

Arawn lifted one shoulder and let it fall carelessly. "Truly? Nothing. However, I come here to bargain. As an equal, man to man." His thin lips twisted. "There is none other in Prydain worth my time."

"Bargain?" Pryderi's glance tightened with suspicion. "How would you treat with me?"

"Merely this." The man leaned forward, his dark eyes flickering in the low light. "There are only two true powers in this realm to speak of: you and I. You could choose to buttress a weak fool and oppose me in a meaningless war that will only lead to further bloodshed." His words, soft as silk, laced themselves into Pryderi's ears. "Or… you and I become allies. Together, we destroy the Sons of Don. Then you become High King over Prydain, while I hold Annuvin."

Before Pryderi could respond, Arawn had raised a hand and unraveled into black smoke.

The room was once again empty and quiet of all but the faraway rain, now murmuring a pledge as delicately as a woman might embroider a battle standard on a flag.


	3. Queen Teleria, After the Battle

**Title: Queen Teleria, After the Battle**

**Prompt: **Queen Teleria, after the battle. I've chosen the "battle" at Caer Colur as the referent, so this scene takes place after the end of _The Castle of Llyr_, as the adventurers return to Dinas Rhydnant.

**Words: **500

**Characters: **Teleria and Rhun

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Prydain Chronicles.

* * *

"Hullo, hullo!" The Prince's voice rang out over the courtyard, accompanied by the jingling of bridles and the stamping and neighing of horses, many other voices lifted in counterpoint.

In her sewing chamber, surrounded by her ladies and focused on the soothing matters of court dress, etiquette, and rearranging the court hierarchy—what a distressing, gaping hole their Chief Steward's departure had left in her Court—Teleria straightened, turning from her embroidery frame to the window. Her son was striding across the cobblestones, his wide grin visible even from this distance.

They had received the news from a rider a few days earlier. The Princess Eilonwy rescued—what a relief to avoid shame to their house—and Rhun an unlikely hero (of course with the aid of Lord Gwydion and that young boy, Taran—what was he again, an Assistant something-or-other? She must make note of his proper title before the welcoming banquet that evening) so all was seemingly in order again.

She shook her head, tidying her robes as she moved to the door. Her ladies rose and followed her down the hall, their voices a restful clucking in the background. So much to arrange, their entire lives upended—but of course they owed Gwydion Son of Don their fealty, and much more, their love and loyalty; it was improper to think of the disorder he trailed in his wake—and now the young Princess to advise and mold into a proper wife and Queen (the girl had much to learn on how to manage a kingdom (and a King); she did not yet realize that affairs of state could be every bit as dangerous and exciting as adventure—more so, since many lives other than one's own rested on one's decisions).

She was in the courtyard now, approaching the returning war party, running just _slightly_ faster than was proper; that was acceptable when greeting one's son who had faced death—from the corner of her eye she saw Rhuddlum entering, his face paler than last week, the wheezing in his lungs more pronounced—another event she should prepare for—Teleria reached Rhun and took him in a warm embrace.

For a moment everything stilled; the restless stirring of the world calmed for a moment and she was not Queen greeting Prince, merely a mother holding her only child, the babe she had once nursed day and night into health after he had emerged blue and listless into the world.

They called her work trivial, called her trivial; she had seen it, seen the scorn even in the eyes of the Princess bright and young like a flame. But it was not trivial, and she must impress that upon the girl. The battle was over, the men's tasks finished; now they would relax and celebrate. But women's work, the small work, arranging and feeding and keeping breath and body together; that work was never finished and one could never rest.

There was no "after the battle" for a Queen.


	4. The Crucible

**Title: The Crucible**

**Prompt: **Sympathetic!Achren, behind the scenes during _The Castle of Llyr_, somewhere off the coast of Dinas Rhydnant.

**Words: **500

**Characters: **Achren

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Prydain Chronicles.

* * *

The ship stank.

Muffled in her cloak, she strode up the plank onto the narrow, pitching vessel. The moon swam in and out of clouds as rain thrashed the deck in streaks. Magg had tossed the squinty-eyed captain a bag of coin and disappeared, anxious to avoid being seen in such disreputable company.

The crew, such as they were, stared at her sullenly.

"…'Tis bad luck having a woman on board…" one muttered.

Another had the audacity to spit on the filthy deck in front of her and she stiffened.

She locked eyes with the captain. One corner of his mouth twisted briefly and he turned away, looking over the railing at the grimy docks.

She sighed. So it was to be thus, was it?

Another test. No different from ever how it had been. An old, old memory flashed in her mind, from when she was but a girl, immediately after the battle that destroyed her home town. On a ruined street, several bigger boys had cornered her. In those days, she had been foolish and weak. She had still believed in the possibility of decency.

She had survived. And emerged tempered, purer. It had been seared into her that naught mattered but strength. Strength, and guile, and power.

She lifted her head and pierced the miscreant with her gaze. A quick gesture froze his muscles. Sudden terror flared in his eyes and a contemptuous smile spread over her lips.

"Fool," she whispered, her voice pitched so low she knew the others would have to lean in to hear. "You dare treat a queen thus? You filth are not worthy to grovel at my feet. Now… you will learn to your grief what it means to displease Achren."

She raised a hand, long fingers extended. His gaze sharpened in panic and she watched with satisfaction as his muscles bunched and flexed against the spell. She took a slow step forward.

At a twist of her fingers, the man gasped in agony as molten lead rolled through his veins. Shrieking and writhing, he collapsed to the deck. The others, terrified, drew back as she bared her teeth in a predatory smile. Abruptly, she closed her fist. With one long, ululating cry, the man's body arched on the rough boards, facial muscles convulsing. Then he fell silent and limp.

With a smirk, she strode forward, treading carelessly upon one of his outstretched palms.

"I trust there will be no more complaints?" she asked. Deathly silence greeted her. "Good." Without turning, she addressed the captain. "Have all the casks of rum poured out and replaced with water. There will be no drunkenness under my command. We sail with the morning tide."

Then she flung open the door of the aft cabin and slammed it behind her. There was no longer any need to see if her orders would be obeyed.

Fear. Fear would cauterize the weak, as always. It was her most faithful companion. Indeed, the only one left to her.

* * *

_**A/N:** Hmmm, I guess she wasn't very sympathetic there, but at least she was in-character?_


	5. Summer's Day

**Title: Summer's Day**

**Prompt: **Summer Day. When faced with the concept of losing one, which memory popped into Taran's head?

**Words: **a little more than 500 ;)

**Characters: **Taran and Eilonwy

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Prydain Chronicles.

* * *

_Orwen smiled. "Or you could give us a summer's day." Her eyes met his. "A young lad like you must have so many, surely you wouldn't miss one."_

_Taran stepped back, staring at her. He thought, "Yes, I have many memories of summer days, hundreds even. Truly, it would be a small price to pay for the chance to finally destroy the evil Crochan."_

_And then, his gaze still locked upon the enchantress's, he realized with horror which one she meant._

xxx

It was early in the summer after Eilonwy had first come to live at Caer Dallben. The air was soft and warm, overlaid with the sweetness of late-blooming apple blossoms. Taran strode through the long grass, thoroughly vexed. Although he could hardly begrudge Dallben for taking in another foundling, the red-haired girl had to be the most annoying person in Prydain. She had certainly upended his own peaceful life at Caer Dallben, constantly intervening in his own duties, especially the care of Hen Wen. It was aggravating that Hen sometimes even showed a preference for the Princess. And her assumptions of superiority never failed to infuriate him – while Coll and Dallben always assumed that he was at fault in any spats he got into with the girl.

Now, it appeared she was getting herself into yet another scrape. Indeed, Taran thought guiltily, he sometimes wished her long-missing kinsmen would finally show up and take her off Dallben's hands. His life would be so much quieter.

Her carefree laugh rang out up ahead and he hurried forward. Halfway up the tallest apple tree, a disheveled figure was reaching for a higher branch. Her red-gold hair was bound back in a messy ponytail, twigs and blossoms sticking out of it in a manner reminiscent of Gurgi, Taran thought disapprovingly.

"Stop!" he commanded. "This tree is over a hundred years old, and many of the branches are dry and unsafe," he said, parroting Coll's words. "It's dangerous and might not hold your weight. Come down at once!"

But Eilonwy only tossed her head. "How ridiculous!" she scoffed, reaching for the next bough. "An Assistant Pig-Keeper might be afraid, but I am a Princess of Llyr." She hoisted herself onto a higher limb, panting a little.

"Come down, I say, you feckless, scatterbrained girl!" he roared.

She glared at him, her eyes flashing. "Insulting people isn't the way to get them to do what you want. It's like kicking a dog to make it stop barking."

Taran was beside himself with fury. "Go ahead then!" he yelled. "Break your own foolish neck! See if I care." He turned away.

Her voice, fainter now, wafted down to him as a breeze brushed the tops of the trees, loosing a flood of rose and white blossoms into the air. "Don't you understand? You must learn the trees anew every year, for they are always different."

The wind rose slightly, and the branches creaked as another wave of flowers swirled around him. Alarmed, he turned back just as a loud crack split the air. He didn't stop to think, just rushed forward.

She landed on him with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

He rolled to one side, cradling her in his arms. Her face was covered with cuts and scratches, dirty and smudged as usual, red-gold lashes closed over her cheeks, her lips parted. Panic clutched at his chest; she was not breathing.

For a moment the sun dimmed and the apple blossoms spun like thrown knives.

Memories engulfed him, images of her running, the sound of her laughter. The petals lashed him as he stared frantically into her lifeless face. The color faded from the sky and trees around him and cold gusts slashed at his skin.

Then her eyes opened.

The sun blazed anew; its light glittered through the laden branches, and Taran gazed into her eyes, unable to speak, knowing only that the world had changed in a single moment.


End file.
